


Hunger Hurts

by eternalbrook



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Post-Rescue, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Victorian problems, background Crozier/Fitzjames, compulsory heterosexuality really did a number on Edward, general societal homophobia, mild D/s themes, the inherent eroticism of being a valet, valet Jopson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-20 11:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30004011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalbrook/pseuds/eternalbrook
Summary: You’re too old to be this sentimental,he tells himself, brushing the fabric with extra vigor. What matters is that he act prudently and not risk a good position over a dark brow and a pair of broad shoulders. He is not a ship’s boy anymore, cocky over the surety of his next meal for the first time in his life and the knowledge of his ability to catch a man’s eye. He did not make it this far by indulging in risks or asking for more than was good for him. He hadn’t batted an eye when the admiralty had laughed Crozier’s attempts at securing his lieutenancy out of the room. He is accustomed to wanting what he cannot have.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Edward Little
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	Hunger Hurts

Thomas is used to hunger. It was his constant companion as a child, those long winters when what little work there was dried up and coin was as hard to come by as game was to poach. It had made it easier, at first, when hunger had come for them on the expedition. He knew how to ride its waves, bear its spasms. It did not make him churlish or absent-minded the way it did the others, those who had grown up with soft bellies and sugar-sticky hands.

These days his stomach is always full and he eats the hearty diet of a gentleman’s valet, with a sweet snuck in at times, but hunger has stayed with him. 

It’s an unseasonably warm day for the fall, so Thomas has picked a thin silk stock, one he would normally put away at the end of summer. Little stands still before Thomas as he ties it carefully around his neck. 

“It’s a ha’penny in savings per tin, which of course adds up to quite a lot when outfitting a two year expedition, and that’s all the admiralty can see. I’d rather spend every ha’penny the admiralty has and pick a provisioner whose factory doesn’t have quite so many rats. Lord knows I don’t have expectations for the taste, but I won’t let them send men off with rotting tins again.”

His voice is still thick with sleep but forceful. Thomas _hmms_ to show agreement and knots the silk. He remembers the taste of those tins, a foul thing even before rotted. The labels said beef and veal but he knew horse when he tasted it. Better any meat than poison, though, which is what they had been. The hunger back then had been constant, a yawning emptiness that followed you everywhere.

Thomas finishes with the stock and adjusts Little’s collar. His fingertips whisper against the soft skin of his neck, the gentle brush of his beard. He draws his hands away.

“The admiralty should have had men like you when they were outfitting us, sir,” he says. Little smiles at him bashfully, brown eyes fond. Thomas looks away and busies himself with tidying up the bedroom. He is used to hunger.

_________________________________________________________

The house is not large, or in a fashionable neighborhood, but Thomas is well pleased with it. The brightly colored wallpaper, which Little had given him reign to pick out, declaring his own tastes in the matter poor, makes even the grey days feel warm. Little has a fine collection of silver, inherited from an aunt, and he declares it too fancy to use but Thomas still takes it from the shelves once a week for polishing, admiring the fine twists and whorls in the pattern. Thomas makes sure the curtains are laundered, the wood moldings buffed into a gentle sheen, and the numerous cushions embroidered by Little’s sisters shaken out regularly so dust does not accumulate.  


Some of that work should really be the charge of Mrs. Jenkins, whose services as housekeeper and cook were acquired along with the house rental, but she is slipshod in her work and given to taking off early on account of her supposed rheumatism. Thomas had spent six months in polite battle with her over these tendencies before deciding he preferred her absenteeism over having her under foot. He likes the evenings when she leaves early and he and Little are the only ones in the house. After dinner Little sits by the fire with his pipe and invites Thomas to join him. Doing his mending in front of the brazier, looking up occasionally to see the warm light dance across Little’s handsome face, he feels as content as he’s ever been, happy enough that his mind starts going silly with – well, it hardly matters. 

It’s a fine situation, is all, having such a nice house under his care, and in service to a good man. Thomas doesn’t intend to do anything to jeopardize that. He takes care with his work, and the house and Little’s wardrobe shine under his attention. The floors are never dirty. Thomas sprinkles used tea leaves on the wood to catch the dust. He is sweeping up the leaves when Little comes in the front door. 

“Jopson!” he exclaims cheerfully. “You’ll be cross with me, it’s horribly muddy today and it got everywhere. I think it even got on my coat.” He shakes the coat off and makes to hand it to him but Thomas tuts.

“You’ll track mud in, sir, and the floors are clean,” he says, and notes with pleasure how Little immediately stills, chastened. “Let me fetch your slippers.”

When he returns with his slippers Little is smiling at him. “What would I do without you, Jopson?”

“I imagine you’d have frightful floors, sir.” He allows himself a quirk of the lips. “Let’s get those boots sorted.”

They are caked in mud, and in order to remove them without dirtying the floor he has to kneel closer than he normally would. He can smell Little, wool and tobacco and something unique to him. He puts his hand to Little’s knee to pull off the boots and his forehead quickly brushes his thigh. He hears Little choke on a gasp.

Thomas stays perfectly still. If he turns his head, he thinks, he would see Little’s hardness pressing through his trousers. He wants to press his face into it. He imagines undoing the buttons, taking the firm length in his mouth and feeling the weight on his tongue. It would fill him, feed this craving he cannot shake.

Thomas does not turn his head. He lines the boots carefully by the door and then rises, keeping his eyes downcast. “I’ll take that, sir,” he murmurs, taking the coat, and then retreats hastily into the scullery.

He tries to focus on brushing the mud off the coat. Nothing has changed, he reminds himself. Little’s inclinations have never been in question. He remembers nights in the wardroom on Terror, feeling his eyes follow him about the room. At first Thomas had thought Little might be a pleasant occupation for cold nights, but he had responded to none of the hints that someone accustomed to that sort of activity would notice, and Thomas had given it up. Any lust in Little’s eyes was always mixed with equal parts confusion, as if he could not understand why he was looking at Thomas.

Thomas has known many men like Little, strangers to their own desires. Some can be brought to an understanding, but the tumble is rarely worth it. As soon as the pleasure fades they remember wives or sweethearts back home, or the articles that have been broken, or merely come to the realization of what kind of man they now are, and Thomas barely has time to wipe the spend from his legs before he must face their anger. He knows Little isn’t the kind to use his fists or threaten his employment, but the affection he gives Thomas so freely would sour. The house would grow cold and quiet, and he could not bear it. He knows the irony of choosing restraint now when he risked so much more in the past, but he fears the thought of Little looking at him with disdain far more than he ever feared the lash.

 _You’re too old to be this sentimental_ , he tells himself, brushing the fabric with extra vigor. He sprinkles pearl-ash on the stain and begins rubbing with a wet rag. What matters is that he act prudently and not risk a good position over a dark brow and a pair of broad shoulders. He is not a ship’s boy anymore, cocky over the surety of his next meal for the first time in his life and the knowledge of his ability to catch a man’s eye. He did not make it this far by indulging in risks or asking for more than was good for him. He hadn’t batted an eye when the admiralty had laughed Crozier’s attempts at securing his lieutenancy out of the room. He is accustomed to wanting what he cannot have.

_________________________________________________________

It’s almost midnight, and Thomas’s eyes are drooping. Little rarely makes social calls, but when he does they are to his family, and those nights run late. Thomas knows that there are many nieces and nephews to play with and brothers and sisters to talk to long into the night.

Thomas has taken his seat in front of the fire. His leg, which has been bothering him all day, is propped on a footstool. He has Little’s nightshirt at hand, mending a torn seam. It’s soft to the touch, a finer muslin than any he has ever worn. He makes his stitches small and neat. Little had not noticed the tear and will not notice the mend, but Thomas will know the stitches are there by his hand, lying against his skin in the night, and the thought gives him a honeyed pleasure.

When he hears steps approach the front door he hurries to put the mending away and stand at attention. Little looks somber as Thomas greets him and takes his coat and scarf, ushers him in front of the fire. He is often somber, but rarely after visiting his family. When Thomas hands him a cup of tea he stares at it without drinking.

“Pleasant visit, sir?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, yes. Richie is learning his catechism. We all got a recitation.” He takes a sip of tea and then goes back to staring at it. “Maggie is trying to get me married."

Thomas drops his eyes to his own cup and turns it so that it is parallel with the tablecloth. He wonders if he could sneak into the kitchen and add a shot of whiskey to it without Little noticing. 

“She has been campaigning for it for quite a while. She’s quite insistent. Worries that I’m lonely.”

“Are you?”

“No,” Little says, looking at him unguardedly, “not with you here.” He drops his gaze back again. “But there is something to be said for a different kind of company. I see how happy Maggie is with John and I wonder at having that for myself. That kind of affection.”

Thomas imagines standing in the back of a church and watching Little marry a kind-faced woman. He would be good to her, he knows. He would try to love her, and maybe even succeed. He wonders if he would stay to serve Little and his wife in their new home or if he would leave. He wonders which would be worse. 

“I’m sure your sister has many friends she would be happy to introduce you to,” he makes himself say. 

“Yes, Maggie has never been short on friends with which to play matchmaker. She tried when we were younger. I wasn’t opposed to it, despite what she may say, merely bad at it. I never knew what to say to them. On the few occasions I was able to have a genuinely amiable conversation I still felt as if . . . I’m not sure. I wondered if there was something missing in me that prevented me from feeling truly connected to any of the ladies I met.” He fiddles with his teaspoon, twirling it in his fingers before seeming to snap out of a spell. “And you?”

“Me, sir?”

“Did you ever consider marriage?”

“Ah,” Thomas takes a long drink of tea. “No, I knew it was not for me.”

“Why not?”

“I . . .” What on earth can he say? He chooses his words carefully. “I suppose I felt as you did, sir. That I would never feel that sort of connection with a woman.”

Little nods, considering this. He must find it acceptable because he smiles ruefully. “I suppose some of us are not built for romance.” He stands up, stretching his back. “To bed, I think. I’ve kept you out of yours long enough. Oh, before I forget-” he pulls something small out of his pocket, wrapped in handkerchief, and gives it to Thomas. 

Thomas unwraps it, nonplussed. Inside is a slice of spice cake, frosting crumbling on the fabric. He looks up sharply at Little, who is grinning. “Maggie’s recipe. I know you sneak sweets when you think I don’t notice. You needn’t hide your sweet tooth. You can have all the sweets you like here.” 

Thomas ducks his head, face scarlet. He feels like he has been caught doing something forbidden. He takes a bite of the cake, which melts sweetly on his tongue. He wraps the rest in the handkerchief for later, then picks up the nightshirt and follows Little upstairs.

_________________________________________________________

Each morning Thomas sets out the shaving-tackle. He heats up a basin of water – not too hot, but not tepid – and strops the blade. Shaving Little requires standing by his chair in the vee of his knees. Little is slow to wake in the mornings, and he watches Thomas with sleepy eyes. Thomas swirls the brush in soap until it is coated in a fine white froth and stoops to lather it on Little’s neck and chin.

“Have you thought of what you will do for Christmas?” They are standing so close that Little barely needs to move his mouth to speak.

“I had thought I’d go into the square to hear the carolers.”

“I mean for the duration. You’ll have nearly two weeks’ vacation.”

“Very generous, sir.”

Little snorts. “Hardly. Less than you deserve. And I’m not so grand that I require my valet for a visit to my parents’ house.”

“Mrs. Jenkins is visiting her niece in Crawley, I believe. I’ll be here, holding down the fort.”

Little frowns, smudging the lather. Thomas wipes it with the side of his thumb. “It’s not necessary. Do you have family to visit?”

“No, sir.” He glides the blade across the lather, revealing smooth skin. He can feel the pulse in Little’s neck, see the blue veins shift as he swallows. He wants to run his fingers over it, taste it with his tongue. He feels lightheaded, and it makes him speak when he does not mean to.

“My brother is the only one left. I had hoped to see him when we returned, but he was . . . he was transported to Van Diemen's Land. Thievery. He’d been gone a year when we got back. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.” He blinks hard and focuses on rinsing the blade in the water. “He’s a good man. I know my brother. He never set out to be a thief. It’s just that he was hungry.” 

He busies himself with putting away the blade. Little is silent for a long moment and when he speaks his voice is low. “I remember being hungry on King William’s Land. I’d never felt anything like that before. Food was all I could think of. Every time a hunting party came back empty-handed I wanted to weep. I would have stolen then if there had been anything to steal. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it.”

Thomas makes himself meet Little’ eyes. They are so serious and kind. “I am sorry for your brother,” Little says. “I’m sorry you never got to say goodbye.”

Thomas wipes his skin carefully with a soft cloth. He clears the catch in his throat. “Thank you, sir.”

“I wish you would call me Edward,” Little says, and Thomas stops breathing. He folds the towel in his hands and places it next to the razor. He shifts the brush so that it is aligned with the basin. 

“I’m not sure that’s appropriate, sir.”

Little’s face shutters immediately. He coughs. “Of course. My apologies, Jopson. Thank you.”

Thomas takes the dirty towel and flees into the kitchen. His breath is coming in deep gasps. He throws the towel into a basin and starts scrubbing. He knows he has hurt Little, and the knowledge cuts deep. But the idea of calling him Edward - it is too dangerous. In all his years no one has ever asked that before. Not even Captain Crozier had dared suggest Thomas call him Francis. To use Christian names would be an unbearable intimacy. It would corrode the very structure of his position and leave him with nothing to hold onto, a quivering mass of want on the floor for Little to step over with disgust. 

He wipes his hands and pours cold tea into his chipped cup. He takes a biscuit from the tin with shaking hands and reminds himself that just because Little is fond of his companionship does not mean he would ever welcome him as a lover, kiss him sweetly and whisper tender things in his ear. Little is a man devoted to order. He is not some libertine lounging in salons but a creature of hierarchy and discipline. But oh how Thomas wishes he would turn that discipline on him, use his lieutenant’s voice and shove Thomas where he belongs. Thomas could show him how to do it. He could show Little how prettily he could bend his neck, sit at his feet, take a bruise. He’d be so good for him, so good he wouldn’t have a chance to regret it. 

The foolish thoughts won’t leave him. Thomas takes another biscuit, cramming it into his mouth. He makes himself think of the hunger of his childhood, the roiling acidity that would stay in his stomach for days at a time. That was a more terrible kind of want. He has been hungrier than this many times, and he has always survived.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 coming very soon!  
> Any comments and kudos much appreciated <3


End file.
